


Komm, gib mir deine Hand

by PAPERSK1N



Series: A Taste of Honey [5]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Boys In Love, Drunken Shenanigans, Excessive Drinking, George is a really really really good friend and J/P are trash, Hamburg Years, M/M, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: John wants to, uh,hold Paul's handall the time these days, but when there's a whole gang of spotty, raucous teenagers sharing a windowless room behind a cinema, it's hard to find any semblance of privacy.Paul and John take advantage of a drunken, heavy sleeper.





	Komm, gib mir deine Hand

**Hamburg, Germany**

**1960**

“He’ll hear us!”

“He wont!”

“ _John-_ ”

“He’s dead to the world, come on. You know you like it when I-”

“ _John_ \- c’mon-” Paul’s tipsy laugh snuck out from beneath the rustling sheets. “Fuckin’ _hell_ , we can’t.”

“We can, and we are.”

“You’re a rotten friend-”

“-But a _tremendous_ lover.”

“ _Ah_ \- yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

Surprisingly enough, George’s squeaky snoring wasn’t as much as a turn off as Paul expected it to be, and he soon forgot why thing’s might’ve been awkward once he had John between his legs under their scratchy, woollen, union-flag print blanket. Even more surprisingly, his best mate slept through the whole spectacle, hardly stirring once- not even when Paul let out a sudden yell so loud John had to clamp his hand over his mouth, subsequently leading to yet another new kink discovery for them both.

They weren’t _trying_ to be terrible friends. It was just hard, out here in Hamburg, sometimes six of them being stuffed in one tiny, smelly room. How was he supposed to resist _John Lennon_ \- fresh off stage and dripping with sweat, hopped up on prellies with twin flames burning behind his eyes? George slept like a rock most nights, but _Stu_ was quick to voice his complaints if they so much as shared a _cuddle_ , and Pete didn’t say anything, but the look on his face after that one time he walked in on something he shouldn’t’ve was plenty enough.

Tonight was a rare moment of almost-privacy. Stu was out with that photographer bird he’d been fawning over and even Pete had managed to score a girl he didn’t need to pay. By the time they were stumbling back to the grimy little squat they’d been calling home these last few months it was just the three of them, and George was so boozed he could scarcely speak, let alone complain. Paul remembered laughing as John let out a sigh before hauling their little mate over his shoulders as if he weighed no more than a bag of spuds and carried him home to bed.

Panting and sweaty but overall, more than satisfied, Paul grinned at John in the darkness. For once, John was right. George hadn’t so much as stirred, too drunk to even brush consciousness, and John had certainly been greatly rewarded for his chivalry.

“Give us a cuddle.” John whispered, and Paul obliged, wrapping himself around his mate underneath the blanket, running his toe up and down John’s ankle teasingly. God, John would never have lived it down if Stu or any of the other lads knew how much he liked to be _spooned_.

“Night love.” Paul hummed, kissing the shell of John’s ear. “Don’t let the bed-bugs bite.”

“Don’t joke about that.” John huffed back. “We’ve definitely got something living under this mattress.”

* * *

When George woke up, it was to quiet whispering, a momentous headache, and the smell of fresh cherry shortcrust pastry in the air.

His stomach rumbled at the idea of his mother, baking in the early morning. Pie for breakfast?! It was unheard of. He certainly wasn’t going to say no. So far in Hamburg they barely managed one meal a day, scraping up what was left of their _marks_ after an eight hour gig and a steady stream of unlimited beers and grabbing breakfast before they were back out on the streets again. For someone like George, who needed at least three Yorkshires with his roast, it was _hell_.

Come to think of it, his mother making pie in the morning was odd for more than one reason. The most obvious of which being that actually, she was back home in Liverpool- and George was sprawled out across his bunk in fucking _Germany_ with his so-called _mates_ , trying to become famous rock-and-rollers.

George peeled his eyes open and was disappointed to be faced with the same old grimy, dull concrete walls of their little room at the back of the Bambi Kino. He sighed, forcing himself to acknowledge that there would be no home comforts, no Yorkshire puddings and certainly no cherry pie for a long while.

However, this still didn’t quite explain the _smell_. He definitely hadn’t dreamt up _that_.

Rubbing at his eyes and groaning, George sat up in the uncomfortable bunk, bedsheets pooling at his waist. He looked to his side and noticed company in the room, which was a good sign, because he certainly didn’t remember getting home himself, and was relieved to know that either John or Paul had bothered to carry him, rather than leaving him to kip on the roadside.

However, he quickly noticed, that was certainly John and Paul all entangled on the left side of the room- but in the other bed, just underneath his, there was nothing. None of the others were around, not Stu with his wall-rattling snores nor Pete with his broody, miserable morning sulk, offering a ciggy to his latest bunk-mate.

_Put the pieces together_ , he thought, rubbing at his sore head with a sigh. _You, John, Paul. Nobody else around. Cherry in the air-_

“Oh… wait… you _didn’t_! Did you?!” he exclaimed, only to be met with John’s raucous laughter in return, and fumbling between the sheets as his two so-called friends wised up to the fact that he was now very much _awake_. “Oh I can’t fuckin’ believe you two,” George fumed. “Whilst I was _here_? _Sleepin’?!_ ”

“C’mon Georgie boy.” John grinned with his hands stretched out behind his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself by anyone’s standards. Beside him in the bed, Paul’s face was a glorious, glowing red. “A man has his _needs_ , after all. How can I deny myself when Paulie here was servin’ it up on a shiny platter?”

“I _wasn’t_!”

“’Course he was, looking and smellin’ like that.”

“ _John_!”

George grimaced, rubbing his hands over his head and back through his matted, unwashed hair. “I’m not havin’ this conversation.” He huffed, shaking his head from side to side, entirely too hungover to entertain John’s dirty idea of fun. “I didn’t think I’d need to ask, but don’t fuck whilst I’m here, please? As my mates?”

“It wont happen again George, honest.” Paul said, and George didn’t doubt his sincerity. It just wasn’t Paul’s commitment he was concerned with.

“John.” He said pointedly, gritting his teeth. “D’you promise?”

There was a pause that carried on far longer than George cared for, followed by more rustling when John shot up in the bed suddenly, grabbing Paul by the shoulders and manhandling him until he was laid down on his back. “Not on your _life_ , sunshine _._ ” He laughed in response, wild eyed fixed on his mate as Paul wriggled and laughed and pretended to protest for at least a second or two before he was melting under John’s touch, allowing himself to be pinned down against the mattress, John’s lips covering his own.

In response, all George could do was groan himself, covering his head with his own thick blanket, hoping they’d be quiet enough for him to fall back asleep. The sooner they made it ‘big’, the better. At least then they might have enough quid to fork out for some decent, _separate_ hotel rooms.

**Author's Note:**

> glad u guys are enjoying this series so far!!!! Let me know what you might like to see from this collection in the comments :)


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